Thu, 21 Mar 2019 01:26:13 -0400WeeblyWed, 06 Feb 2019 13:45:03 GMThttp://www.lifechurchknoxville.com/blog/the-guy-i-played-football-withLuke 4:22 “All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his lips. “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” they asked.” I had just preached my first sermon. I was eighteen years old. I began the sermon in Genesis and ended in Revelations in the matter of ten minutes. It wasn’t very good. Aunts and grandmother’s however were pinching my cheeks lying that it was the best sermon they ever heard. People were speaking well of me. And then it happened. One of my peers was waiting. “Don’t let it go to your head,” they said. The message was clear. “We know you.” “You’re the guy we played football with.” The way I interpreted those words were, “God will never say anything special to us through you. You are just Phil. We know everything there is to know about you and its not that impressive. It's the phenomena of discounting the familiar. Jesus understood this dynamic so well that he eventually said, “Beware when all speak well of you.” The reason that people were speaking well of Jesus was because he was “on fire!” After spending forty days in the desert being tempted by the devil, Jesus came out victorious and as Luke says “full of the Holy Spirit” His first order of business was to go to the temple in Nazareth and get up in front of the congregants and open the scroll to Isaiah six and proclaim those iconic words. “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind,to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

He then rolled the scroll back up and set it down. He dropped the mike. If that wasn’t enough, while everyone stared at him he proclaimed…”“Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”

But then he goes to his hometown and the momentum is slowed. “isn’t this (Average Joe’s) son? Isn’t this the guy I played football with?

I don’t know how you imagine Jesus in school as a boy, but without admitting it, I think we assume Jesus stayed in from recess, so he could study the scripture and that there was a halo around his head and when the lights turned off he glowed.

This, however, would be inaccurate. If our theology of Jesus is correct, in addition to being all God he was ALL BOY.

They danger of this passage is that we think Isaiah’s quote is meant for Jesus alone. With our 21st century Christian sensibilities, this is the point where we say, “Yay Jesus! Preach to the poor, open blind eyes, set the oppressed free and proclaim the Lord’s favor. Jesus, however, was quoting a passage that Isaiah owned for himself. More to my point, the Isaiah passage was meant for all of his followers as well. We are to say, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…” We don’t dare, however, because we are too familiar with one another. We have played football with each other.

C. S. Lewis suggests, however, that if we are to recognize the “holiness” in one another we are going to have to take seriously the people we played football with. In The Weight of Glory Lewis writes…

“There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat.But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn.We must play.But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption.And our charity must be real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment.Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.”I don’t know about you, but I want to help set the oppressed free. I want to help our blind society to receive back its sight and I want to proclaim the good news that mercy triumphs over judgement to world in need of good news. ]]>Wed, 05 Dec 2018 17:33:02 GMThttp://www.lifechurchknoxville.com/blog/this-little-light-of-mine

​On this day of national mourning for President H. W. Bush, my mind goes back to some life changing day in August 1988.

The unobstructed sun baked our oiled skin as we rowed a borrowed boat across a friend of a friend's borrowed pond. These were luxuries we couldn’t have afforded save for the kindness of people who let us live like the other half of society that day. Melanie and I were still newlyweds. To be precise it was the first anniversary of our wedding. I was just finishing a two year stint as a teacher in an underfunded Christian school on a pauper's salary. We were happy and didn’t know we were poor. Our apartment in Columbia had been furnished by Honest Charlie’s used furniture. Charlie took a liking to me and marked down already bargain basement prices to accommodate our budget. We furnished our entire place for around $250.00 We had access to the Food Bank and I must say, we ate the best government cheese and had the best choice of sugary cereals. It’s no wonder the poor often battle with their weight. We were leaving this life behind, however, to become seminary students. For the next three years we would become even poorer. This time period reminds me of my Grandfather Bird’s comment about his family when he said, “We were dirt poor, and then the depression hit.”

Today, however, I was splurging. I wanted to impress my bride with a worthy Anniversary. The private pond outing was just the beginning of our day. The farm pond was halfway between Columbia Missouri where we lived and our final anniversary destination of St. Louis. After thoroughly luxuriating in the sun and water, we excitedly drove the one remaining hour to Westport Plaza where St. Louis’s wealthier crowd played. We were not staying in the Red Roof Inn this time. Melanie had found a thirty-five dollar deal to the Ramada Inn. We had not stayed in places fancy enough to go above the second floor. Riding the elevator to our lofty hotel room was a sumptuous deviation from our basement apartment lifestyle.

I couldn’t wait for the dinner surprise. I had heard advertisements for a famous steakhouse owned by two former St. Louis Cardinal football players-Dan Dierdorf and Jim Hart. For you younger folks, consult the history books. The Cardinals were also a St. Louis football team. Dierdorf and Hart’s were known for their big steaks. I had been saving for this night.

We dressed up, for the special occasion as people did in the 1980's. I donned my best suit and tie and Melanie looked stunning in her dress, curly brown hair and heels. The restaurant was so close we walked to it.

The lights were dim and the atmosphere smelled of old money. The waiter asked what we wanted to drink. When we said, “water”, he looked a little perturbed. It was more than the expense of the wine, neither of us drank.

Instead of bringing a menu, the waiter brought out a tray of raw and oversized steaks. He explained the various cuts of meat before showing us the menu. When I looked at the menu, my heart sank. I didn’t carry a credit card at the time and I didn’t have enough cash for two steaks. I had underestimated their prices. I tried to hide my growing discomfort from Melanie, but she sensed it. “Why don’t we split a steak,” she suggested. “Good idea”, I said. “Did you see the size of those steaks?”

The waiter came back to our table and I said that we would like to split a prime rib. He looked at me with an expression that barely hid his disgust. “There will be a seven-dollar splitting charge,” he said.

“Give us a moment,” I pleaded. I suddenly felt poor, unworthy, and embarrassed. I glanced at Melanie and asked, “Do you mind if we leave?” She took my hand, nodded her head toward the door and we escaped quickly without making eye contact with anyone. I was humiliated. I didn’t want to go anywhere else. We retreated to the hotel to regroup. By then, I was exhausted. I had a great education and low income. It's the perfect combination for wounded pride.

It had been a long day and I asked Melanie if she minded me taking a nap and then we would order up room service. Room service had steaks I could afford. Melanie was her ever positive self. I fell asleep and Melanie went to work. She found an extra bed sheet and made a tablecloth out of it. Melanie knew how to make flowers out of tissue and the Kleenex box became her source material to the most beautiful bouquet of paper flowers. Somewhere she found a candle and when I woke up, steak was being served in our hotel room on a bed sheet tablecloth on the hotel room table. In our more than three decades of marriage, this meal is still the most memorable.

The hotel had another luxury we didn’t own-a television. As we finished dinner, we turned on the television to watch what the whole nation would be watching that night-Ronald Reagan’s farewell speech at the Republican National Convention. To research this writing, I watched his speech again. I was shocked when I heard him say these words recounting his first Republican Convention in the year he was elected. “On the night of July 7, 1980 we left with a mutual pledge to conduct a national crusade to make America great again.” In this case, he wasn’t recounting promises made, he was reminiscing about promises delivered. He humbly admitted we still had a ways to go.

Reagan’s speech and the convention that followed bolstered this young man, just getting started in life. I didn’t feel poor by the end of that evening. Melanie’s magic and Reagan’s rhetoric completely changed my mood. George H. W. Bush followed up that speech with an unforgettable speech of his own on August 18. It was his famous “thousand points of light” speech.

For me, Bush’s speech recalled Abraham’s vision as he looked at the stars and was challenged to “count them if you can.” It recalled Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech that envisioned a brighter and better day.

I didn’t feel excluded from this vision. I was included. The thousand points of light suggested that there was room for my “little light” to shine. It was not a partisan speech, it was expansive and inclusive and appealed for there to be “one America.”

Two years later, I would be commissioned as an officer in the US. Army and George H. W. Bush was my first commander-in-chief. I am proud to have served under him. I was stationed at Ft. Campbell Kentucky as a Chaplain Candidate when Marlin Fitzwater delivered President Bush’s message that “the liberation of Kuwait has begun.” It wasn’t lost on me that the messaging was not about defeating an enemy, it was about freeing a people. I cried that night as I watched the bombing of Baghdad as CNN’s Bernard Shaw reported from atop the Al-Rashid hotel.

I was grateful that President Bush met his objectives and then ended the war. I am proud to have served under a president who didn’t do a victory dance on the Berlin Wall. His gracious response made him one of the fathers of the reunification of Germany. I am grateful for his modesty, humility, humanity and quiet spirituality.

Melanie and I left that August anniversary and entered seminary. Inspired by Bush’s speech, we volunteered at a homeless mission upon arrival at seminary. Melanie worked in another mission until she graduated from seminary with a Master of Social Work. She shines her light as a counselor and pastor. I served as a Chaplain in the Army and since then I’ve been a parish pastor. I dream of a church as diverse as President Bush's vision. I still believe in President Bush’s vision of a thousand points of light that are as diverse and beautiful as the night sky.

Thank you, President Bush for your service to our country. Thank you for making me feel included. America is better because you served. I mourn your loss and this second lieutenant salutes you one last time.

Having just returned from a memorable Thanksgiving in the Big Apple I thought I would share a nugget from my wife’s family history, that gave birth to their Pentecostal heritage.

Spring had come in more ways than one to the tiny little flat on 374 Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn New York. It was 1912 and Pasia and Peter Strepka were settling in to their new life in America. They were so new that much of their time was taken up in language school. Pasia was befriended by a lawyer’s wife who admired how clean her hands were and offered her a job as a maid. Peter found work in a local restaurant. These were grateful immigrants. When their cousin Joe Kawalyk arrived on a ship from the Ukraine and passed the Statue of Liberty, he famously heaved his luggage carrying all his earthly belongings overboard shouting, “I’m beginning a new life!”

Easter was coming and the Strepkas were ready to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Ukrainian style. The Easter eggs from that part of the world are stunningly beautiful and Pasia decorated the apartment with these homemade treasures. Pierogis, which they called “pataha”, and lamb were on the menu. They scrimped and saved and scraped up enough money to have their first Easter feast in America. Their Orthodox priest was to come and say the required blessing before they ate the sacred meal.

Candles were lit, the food was ready to be served, and the family gathered with grateful hearts. Noon came and went without the priest’s arrival. The food had to be warmed again, but still the priest did not come. After some time, it became clear that he was not coming. In spite of the embarrassment of eating that meal without the priest’s blessing the family said their own blessing and ate wondering what had happened to their priest.

In their culture it was enough of a slight that Peter was quite angry and confronted the priest the following Sunday. When asked why he didn’t come, the priest said, “I’m sorry, but your family is behind on their giving, that is why I didn’t come.”

The struggling family was incensed. They were as generous as their meager earning would allow in spite of living at a poverty level.

This opened their hearts to accepting an invitation to a house church meeting being held by a Polish Pentecostal preacher that cousin Joe had met in language school. The preacher’s custom was to meet in Ukrainian homes teaching about the new encounter with God that sweeping the country which some called Pentecost. Soon the whole family was converted.

Pasia’s daughter Catherine would later marry a Pentecostal man from Ohio named Stanley. They were in attendance at the founding of a new Pentecostal denomination in 1945 called the United Pentecostal Church. Stanley Chambers was elected to the second highest position known as the General Secretary because he was the only one at the meeting that knew shorthand. He would eventually become the General Superintendent of the denomination where he served with integrity and distinction. Stanley and Catherine gave birth to three daughters and a son. Their second daughter Judy gave birth to three daughters. Judy’s oldest daughter Melanie is my wife.

This Thanksgiving our family took our first family trip back to New York. We saw a show on Broadway, froze through the Macy’s Day parade and gawked at the sights on Time Square, Madison Avenue, and Central Park. On Thanksgiving Day, however, after the parade, Melanie boarded the subway to Brooklyn with our two daughters and stood outside an Apartment complex one 374 Atlantic Avenue and stared up at a third-floor window. Melanie gratefully told our girls the story of this epic moment in their family lore.

Maybe our seminaries should focus less on indoctrinating students on the finer points of Calvinism and should instead attempt to immerse their students in the lifestyle of Jesus. The Strepka’s needed love and welcome when they came to America. A Polish Pentecostal preacher shared that love with them.

I’ve come to believe that heaven is not a place for the theologically perfect. Our theology will never be quite right. The Apostle Paul said that “now we see through a glass darkly.” Heaven will be filled with those who have received the grace and love of God and who in turn bestow that grace and welcome on others.

The ripples of one man’s generous welcome to Melanie’s family reverberates through time and I am grateful.

Philip C. Nordstrom, DMin

Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.

​I guess I should have seen it coming. It was right under my nose and yet so disguised. The hints were everywhere. The fact that her dad could not be reached at his work so my dad was called to drive her mother to the hospital to deliver her. Did you catch that? My dad helped deliver the package that my three-year-old mind was oblivious to receive. This was the first clue. For now, however, the package was addressed to her parents to be kept, coddled, and cared for until she was delivered to her permanent address. She was anything but a welcome surprise to me then. She was only competition for my baby sitter’s attention. And besides that, she was a girl with cooties! Did you catch that? Her mom was my baby sitter.

How little did I know the improbable journey this package would make before arriving at my doorstep. First, her parents moved to New York, then my parents moved to Illinois when I was seven. I was in close proximity to my surprise for only ten months and I honestly don’t even remember it. This is not what little boys focus on. I was distracted by more important things. There were imaginary wars to fight with Minnesota snowballs, homes to build out of cardboard boxes and yes, eventually girls my age to crush on.

But we left all of that for Illinois. Later I learned that my destined package moved from New York, to Georgia, to Tennessee, and even spent a year in London England before landing in Missouri. I grew, made friends, and got an education without a clue that the course of my life would shift as the result of a cold 1967 October day in St. Paul Minnesota.

During my growing years, I saw the package a few times. Our parents were friends. She, however, was just a little girl to me. Three years younger is another category of being when one is a child.

And then it happened. Unsuspecting, I came home from Wheaton College for Christmas break and my pastor dad scheduled a guest speaker for New Year’s. The speaker was the man I earlier spoke about who was working when his baby was delivered. The speaker brought his family. He invited his eldest daughter onto the stage to do a puppet show for the children. I don’t remember anything about the puppet. I got short of breath. My heart raced. I saw a young woman in a red plaid jumper wearing a Parisienne cap with curly brown hair and magical eyes. Suddenly, our three year difference didn’t matter.

Two years later, her father walked her down a church aisle and delivered her to me as I waited impatiently to receive this package all wrapped in pure white because she had been kept safely and solely for me. This was holy ground.

Today is her birthday, October 24. We have been together for thirty one years. She is still stunningly beautiful and more importantly radiantly pure. Melanie Jean Bentley now Nordstrom was my October surprise.

Loving wife, nurturing mother, and impeccable character are inadequate words to describe her to you. Those who know her understand that I am not exaggerating. She is simply God’s greatest gift to me.

Today, Melanie , we will give you tokens of our appreciation far too inadequate to express what you mean to us, but YOU Melanie are and always will be the GIFT.

​“There was a man sent from God whose name was John.” (John 1:6) Its pithy isn’t it? It’s as if the Apostle John was given an assignment..."Sum up the life of John the Baptist in one sentence." Let’s see. I could talk about his humility. I could talk about his courage. I could talk about his complete willingness to decrease while his cousin Jesus increased. One sentence? Here goes. There was a man sent from God whose name was John.

Today is my dad, John Nordstrom’s, birthday. I don’t even like to think of some future day when he will no longer be physically with us, but I know what I hope is on his tombstone. John 1:6 is a fitting summary of my dad’s life.

He turns 78 years old today. Did I just see a pig fly by? That is the likelihood of my dad’s lifespan. He should have died in his early thirties. His health completely failed; his kidneys both died. This happened to coincide with the year he was planting a church in Northern Illinois. I remember dad sitting down to preach. Miraculously, he received a matching kidney from his mom until it failed some fifteen years later. Even more unlikely, he cheated death again and received a kidney from his brother, which is functioning perfectly over thirty years later. In more recently years, he beat prostate cancer making his longevity even more unlikely. I frankly grew up with the feeling that I needed to be grateful for every year with my dad. I assumed his life would be much shorter. The words his doctor told him early in his diagnosis became a guiding principle for our family-“Give your children memories.”

I cannot and will not ever forget his voice. The quality of his voice alone is a national treasure. Our family is a musical family and my dad is hands down the best singer of us all. At the insistence of his choir director in college, he made an album called “Down From His Glory.” I can sing every lyric of those songs from wearing that record out. He has a classical voice with tones that reach down past his vocal chords and into his soul. He must have sung the Lord’s Prayer at hundreds of wedding and funerals.

But then there is his preaching voice. My father’s preaching shaped my life. I recall a message he preached at my niece’s baby dedication encouraging people to “Be Faithful Over a Few Things” He spoke about loving God and loving your family and keeping it down to just the most important things. I’ll never forget him preaching a sermon called “A Cloud About the Size of a Man’s Hand” It was a message on hope when all seems hopeless. He preached a message one time called “My Son, My Son.” It was about David’s heart cry for his son Absalom. I, however, heard his voice crying out for me to walk in God’s ways.

I hear his voice every day. Even on days we do not speak I hear him. It’s what Isaiah talked about when he said, “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." (Isaiah 30:21)

His voice encourages, warns, loves, guides, and comforts me. Like John the Baptist, my dad is extremely humble. He’s somewhat shy, but when it comes to caring, he is the best pastor I know.

These may sound like the words of a doting son, but I assure you that hundreds of people can attest to these words. Dad is loved my so many and his influence continues to spread. My mother Phyllis of course was the rock of our family always and especially during dad’s lean times. She sold real estate, World Book Encyclopedias and was the business manager of a car dealership to keep our family afloat.

Dad, I’m honored to be your son. The older you get, the more encouraging you get. Thanks for being such a tender and strong voice in the sound track of my life.

There is so much more I could say. I could talk about alcoholics he provided shelter to in our home while they were recovering. I could tell about his love for people of every race. I would love to tell you of the ten years that he and I got to pastor together in Southern Illinois. He deserves his own book. However, if I had only one sentence I suppose I would echo the eleven words of the beloved Apostle, “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” Happy birthday dad.

“There was a man sent from God whose name was John.” (John 1:6) Its pithy isn’t it. It’s like the Apostle John was given an assignment-sum up the life of John the Baptist in one sentence. Let’s see. I could talk about his humility. I could talk about his courage. I could talk about his complete willingness to decrees while his cousin Jesus increased. One sentence? Here goes. There was a man sent from God whose name was John.

Today is my dad, John Nordstrom’s, birthday. I don’t even like to think of some future day when he will no longer be physically with us, but I know what I hope is on his tombstone. John 1:6 is a fitting summary of my dad’s life.

He turns 78 years old today. Did I just see a pig fly by? That is the likelihood of my dad’s lifespan. He should have died in his early thirties. His health completely failed; his kidneys both died. This happened to coincide with the year he was planting a church in Northern Illinois. I remember dad sitting down to preach. Miraculously, he received a matching kidney from his mom until it failed some fifteen years later. Even more unlikely, he cheated death again and received a kidney from his brother, which is functioning perfectly over thirty years later. In more recently years, he beat prostate cancer making his longevity even more unlikely. I frankly grew up with the feeling that I needed to be grateful for every year with my dad. I assumed his life would be much shorter. The words his doctor told him early in his diagnosis became a guiding principle for our family-“Give your children memories.”

I cannot and will not ever forget his voice. The quality of his voice alone is a national treasure. Our family is a musical family and my dad is hands down the best singer of us all. At the insistence of his choir director in college, he made an album called “Down From His Glory.” I can sing every lyric of those songs from wearing that record out. He has a classical voice with tones that reach down past his vocal chords and into his soul. He must have sung the Lord’s Prayer at hundreds of wedding and funerals.

But then there is his preaching voice. My father’s preaching shaped my life. I recall a message he preached at my niece’s baby dedication encouraging people to “Be Faithful Over a Few Things” He spoke about loving God and loving your family and keeping it down to just the most important things. I’ll never forget him preaching a sermon called “A Cloud About the Size of a Man’s Hand” It was a message on hope when all seems hopeless. He preached a message one time called “My Son, My Son.” It was about David’s heart cry for his son Absalom. I, however, heard his voice crying out for me to walk in God’s ways.

I hear his voice every day. Even on days we do not speak I hear him. It’s what Isaiah talked about when he said, “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." (Isaiah 30:21)

His voice encourages, warns, loves, guides, and comforts me. Like John the Baptist, my dad is extremely humble. He’s somewhat shy, but when it comes to caring, he is the best pastor I know.

These may sound like the words of a doting son, but I assure you that hundreds of people can attest to these words. Dad is loved my so many and his influence continues to spread. My mother Phyllis of course was the rock of our family always and especially during dad’s lean times. She sold real estate, World Book Encyclopedias and was the business manager of a car dealership to keep our family afloat.

Dad, I’m honored to be your son. The older you get, the more encouraging you get. Thanks for being such a tender and strong voice in the sound track of my life.

There is so much more I could say. I could talk about alcoholics he provided shelter to in our home while they were recovering. I could tell about his love for people of every race. I could tell you that the church he planted just celebrated 47 years and is being led by my older brother and his namesake-John. I could talk bout pastoring with him for a decade in Southern Illinois or fun family vacations. He deserves his own book. However, if I had only one sentence I suppose I would echo the eleven words of the beloved Apostle, “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” Happy birthday dad.

This is a long overdue eulogy of one of the most influential pastors in my life-Brother Vittitow. No. He's not dead. That is the problem with eulogies. We reserve them for funerals when the term has nothing to do with death. A eulogy is simply “kind words spoken over someone.” It's a shame that we often wait until someone is no longer with us to express our grateful thoughts regarding the person. Here are a few thoughts while Pastor is still with us.

In the denomination I was raised in, the preferred term of affection in the church is Brother and Sister. Bro. Vittitow was my and Melanie’s pastor when we moved to Louisville Kentucky to attend Southern seminary. In my denomination there were two choices of where to attend church in Louisville and Calvary, where pastor Vittitow served, was an easy choice for us. The people were friendly and welcoming. Pastor’s son Kevin was one of the first people to greet us and made us feel like long lost friends. Those were good reasons to visit the church, but Pastor Vittitow was the reason we stayed.

He was very sensitive to the Holy Spirit and he led the congregation with that sensitivity. He was compassionate to those who were facing tough times. He had an aura about him. Although he was not highly educated, he was bold in his proclamation of the gospel. I’m reminded of what was said about Peter and John in the book of Acts… “When they saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled, ordinary men, they were astonished and they took note that these men hadbeenwithJesus.(Acts 4:13) I always sensed that pastor was soaked in prayer. He began each year leading our church through a special time of fasting.

He broke the bank taking me and Melanie out to lunch almost every Sunday. He knew we were away from home at seminary and treated us like his kids. He generally ate at the greasiest spoon in Louisville-Sandy’s. He loved their fried chicken-keeping the stereotype alive that all preachers love fried chicken. It was a great honor when he asked me to be his Assistant Pastor. It gave me a front row seat into the life of a great pastor.

He became the District Superintendent of the Commonwealth of Kentucky while we were there. He was not a politician. He got the job because he outloved, outworked, outcared, and outgave everyone else in the District. He would use his construction skills to build things at the camp often working from early morning late night.

.

This year, his denomination nominated him as a “Hero of Faith”. It’s the Hall of Fame of those who have made a major impact. This September he will receive the award at the General Conference appropriately being held in Louisville, Kentucky.

The church life at Calvary made our seminary years very fulfilling. I used to tell people that I was a seminarian at the Baptist seminary by day and a Pentecostal preacher by night. Pastor Vittitow rounded out my education at seminary by showing me what a real pastor looks like.

Sister Vittitow was also like a mom away from home for us and their daughter and son Keri and Kevin became family to us. I recently received word that Brother Vittitow was in poor health. I have only seen him once in the 27 years since we left seminary. We have loosely stayed in touch through Facebook and occasionally correspondence, but we have not had occasion for personal visits.

Recently, his son Kevin, called to let me know he was in the hospital and in poor health. Melanie and I made plans and went to visit them in their home when he was released. It was like nothing had changed in all those years. The old conversations picked up where we left them almost three decades ago and we had a blessed reunion with the whole family.

Brother Vittitow is facing an uphill physical battle with Congestive Heart Failure and he is now on dialysis. I just wanted him to know that our lives will ever be touched by his faithful shepherding of us all those years ago. I told him that I owed him about $5,000.00 of lunches from Sandy’s.

Almost every week, Melanie and I buy somebody’s lunch. It’s a small token of paying forward the generosity that was bestowed on us by the Vittitows. Congratulations on being honored as a “Hero of Faith” Long before the award was bestowed, however, you were a hero to Melanie and me.

Phil Nordstrom Lead Pastor

It was my intention to begin driving early this morning in my ride share career,. I hadn't set an alarm. My "old man" alarm is sufficient these days. I squinted at my iphone and was disappointed I was up so early. I shuffled over to the bathroom at 5:00am. Going back to sleep was not an option. My brain was now fully engaged on Sunday's sermon, last minute Christmas, and where I might find customers who needed rides today. By 5:30 I was dressed and in my car. I placed water in cup holders to offer my passengers and candy canes in the wells of the door handles to give my riders a special little Christmas treat.

I always turn on both my Uber and Lyft apps while I'm still in my garage even though I rarely get a call until I get near downtown or the University of Tennessee Campus. As soon as I turned my Lyft app on, however, it "chimed". The chime is the sound that indicates a rider is looking for my help. I grunted as I noticed the rider was sixteen miles away and the drive would take about 25 minutes. I have five seconds to decide whether to take the ride and after a momentary pause I begrudgingly touched the "accept" icon on the screen. Normally, a ride is at the most, five or ten minutes away. Because it was so early, however, and there were so few drivers, I was "chimed" for this distant call.

I turned on some Pentatonix Christmas music to brighten my mood and by the time I reached the West Knoxville address I was in good spirits. My "Lyft" app sent a message saying, "Be sure to welcome them, this is their first ride with Lyft."

"Welcome to Lyft" I said as they shut out the frigid night air, closed the door, and began to settle into the warm air of my Prius.

"Oh this isn't our first ride. It's just the first time we requested on her phone" said the young man. "Our trip will have four stops." He said.

Four stops can mean a long quiet ride, or sometimes a lengthy life-giving conversation. I decided to engage. We talked about their three kids, their jobs, and how, slowly, but surely, they were beginning to advance in life. They were so pleasant. He even bought me a coffee from Pilot on our first stop.

As we made our way to the second stop we needed to get off on Merchants Drive. "Do you know where that is?" The young man asked.

I had to make a choice at that moment. I could tell them I pastor a church off of Merchants, but sometimes that changes the dynamics of the conversation. Some people quit being themselves when they discover they are talking to a "preacher." I almost didn't tell them. Since were were going to drive right past my church, however, I decided to let them in on a little more about me.

"Actually, yes." I conceded. "I do know Merchants. In fact, I pastor a church one mile off the exit."

"Oh yea," said my new young friend. "Didn't it used to be called Beth...Beth...""Bethesda..." I said.

"Yes, it changed its name a few years back." He said. "I know that church. Funny story. One day, about four years ago this time, I was driving my car on the interstate and ran out of gas. I had no money and I couldn't get anybody to stop and give me a ride. The pastor at the time stopped, bought me a gas can, and filled up my car with gas."

The few hairs I have stood at attention at the back of my neck. "That was me." I said. "I forgot all about that until you mentioned it."

As the reader you need to know that I am no Mother Theresa. This is not my practice. In fiver years, I could count on one hand the times I have stopped along the road to help someone. Something, that day, however, prompted me to stop and help that guy. The memory of that cold night came flooding back.

The girl in the car filled in the details of the story. Even though she wasn't with him during the incident, he had shared that story with her multiple times. "It was shortly after we had our third baby." she said. "He turns five today."

"Every time I pass your church I think I need to stop by." said the young man.

More emboldened, I went for the ask. "Maybe its not a coincidence I'm up earlier than normal driving." I said with a smile on my face. "Maybe its no accident that you called me within two seconds of me turning on my app and you didn't cancel me even though I was twenty five minutes away." I made my "elevator" speech gently but thoroughly.

He agreed that this seemed more than coincidental. I invited him to church and had wonderful conversation over the next hour of driving to all of the stops he needed to make. When I dropped him off at work, I gave him some candy canes and a card with our church information on it. We exchanged phone numbers because he has some trade skills that may come come in handy for me one day.

I don't know what if anything will come of it. I only know that God loves people so much that he works in the mundane details of our days to put us together and lift each other up. I'm sure I got more out of my conversation with this precious young couple than they did having to spend over an hour with a pastor who talked their legs off.

I'm glad my man alarm went off. I'm glad I accepted the distant call this morning. I'm glad i went ahead and mentioned I was a pastor. I'm glad I stopped to help him four years ago. I'm glad for the wonder of being part of an adventure that defies my comprehension, supersedes my logic, and transcends the most mundane encounters into Divine appointments.

Phil Nordstrom Author

When I’m in need of some quiet study/write/read time and I can’t manage to get anything done at home, I head to a coffee shop. Not going to lie, I typically go for the high-maintenance orders.

Sitting at a coffee shop as we speak. Just ordered my drink: an almond milk decaf latte in a mug. Not too complicated today. Almond milk because I’m staying away from dairy and decaf because I’m working to break the caffeine addiction. I passed around plenty of “pleases” and “thank yous” because I certainly felt like the difficult one in the room. Paid my fee, stepped up to the counter, and waited with a smile.

Without saying a word, he glared at me, took the mug from my hands, dumped the mug into the sink while maintaining eye contact, and then noisily dropped the mug into the sink. I was quick to apologize, making an argument that I haven’t had a cup of full caffeine coffee in a couple months and wouldn’t want to go off the deep end. He made no attempt to respond to my monologue, so I politely sat down, my back to the counter. I heard milk steaming and other people grabbing their orders but there was no mention of an almond milk decaf latte.

Ten or so minutes later, I casually turned around and glanced at the counter, wondering if my drink had been remade. It had. But no one told me. It was sitting on the opposite side of the counter, slowly becoming cold. Barista had chosen to not re-announce my drink - very obvious he was purposeful in his choice.

My blood pressure surged for a few quick seconds. What a jerk. I shot a dirty look at the person who appeared to be in charge, took the drink back to my table, and noisily sat back down. As my heart literally began to beat faster, I entertained the idea of reporting him in that very moment - walking over to the counter where I ordered and making some rude comment about how he was being a terrible employee and a poor representation of the company.

Then I paused for a second...the word “mercy” came to mind.

Mercy.

I fully realize I’m making a big deal out of nothing, but bear with me for a moment.

At it’s essence, mercy is withholding from someone what they deserve. It is compassion or forgiveness shown to someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm.

That barista “deserved” to be reported just a few moments ago. He “deserved” to get a rude glance and not so kind word. From the way he continued to have negative conversation behind the counter, he probably “deserved” a reprimand from management on maintaining a professional demeanor. But today I chose mercy. Not because I’m the bigger person, but simply because I have received mercy myself.

“But, God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ - by grace you have been saved - and raised us up with Him and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus…” [Ephesians 2:4-6]

Did you catch that? His love was so great (an indescribable love) that He was rich in mercy. Not selective in mercy, RICH in mercy. He loved me even when I was living (and often choose to live) a life that was dead and ultimately headed for eternal death. My finite mind can’t wrap itself around that. I mess up daily. Sometimes by accident. Oftentimes by choice. And, yet, He LOVES me and has MERCY that is overflowing. And because of that, He makes me alive. HE makes me alive.

I have received a mercy that is beyond sufficient description. I am loved by a God who loves me regardless of my poor decisions. He shows me rich amounts of mercy in spite of my (often) daily choices to pridefully turn away from Him.

​With Christ in me, having received that indescribable gift of love and mercy, I have a duty to spread those very things to all I encounter. The very least I can do is show some mercy, smile, and say thank you in the midst of a coffee drink order gone bad. ​

~ Emily HarbinI'm a daughter, sister, and aunt who lives in Clinton, TN. ​Thrilled and honored to be serving alongside the worship team at Life Church. He is worthy of our worship!

There is nothing like the love and warmth of a healthy, loving, local church. In a world that's raining bullets, its still the safest place on earth. The image of First Baptist Church Sutherland Springs haunts me. A pristine house of worship; an embassy for the Prince of Peace. Evil confronts with violent rage. The ugly carnage exposes the truth. Unconquerable love will win the day. My friend, Dr Jeannie Killian, posted on Sunday, "You know the saddest thing about today's mass shooting? That we have to use the word "today's." " As a pastor, this one hits close to home.

​I am writing through the tears of a pastor who is hurting for another pastor. Frankly, I need a pastor right now. The minister who is helping me through this the most is none other than Rev Frank Pomeroy, the pastor of this devastated congregation. I'm sorry to say that all ministers have not been helpful. I was not helped by the blowhard megachurch pastor on a major network who was interviewed as a representative of "the church." He was completely tone deaf to the moment. All he could do was to gloat about how President Trump was such a wonderful "comforter in chief" and suggest that every church in America needs armed guards because we are such "soft targets."

Really? The answer to violence is to get into an arms race with evil? I understand that security in churches must be addressed, but our first instinct should be welcoming people in, rather than securing our borders. The greatest weapon of the church is and always will be non retaliatory love. Its the kind of love I have witnessed in Pastor Frank Pomeroy, pastor of First Baptist Church Sutherland Springs Texas.

If you want to know what a pastor looks like, check out Pastor Pomeroy. His church may not be large, but on a good Sunday about 20 percent of the population of his town attends his church. He wasn't always a pastor. Apparently, according to his sermon the Sunday before the shooting, he was a heathen who nobody would have believed could "get saved" let alone become a pastor.

I watched the entire church service from October 29, the Sunday before the shooting. I and 138,000 people, in fact, have watched it so far on YouTube. I watched Bobby and Shani Corrigan help lead worship that morning. It was hard to watch knowing they were two of victims of the shooting the following week.

Their praise team won't win any Dove Awards, Their harmonies could be tighter and they could use some cool lighting and fog machines but the sincerity of their worship ushered me into God's Presence.

I watched Pastor Frank announce the Fall Festival and tell us that Halloween was also the Lord's day. He asked people to bring 2 liter soda bottles for a "ring toss" and asked people to bake cakes for the cake walk. He was quick to add, however, that if you bring nothing at all, please come and enjoy the evening with your kids and grandkids. He suggested that those with no kids could just come and watch.

After some more passionate worship, it was pastor's to preach. Pastor Frank preached a very creative and helpful message. His words seemed prophetic now that we know what happened the following week. His message was about leaning on God, in situations that we don't understand. I needed this Word. He brought his motorcycle to church and had it sitting right in front of the altar. He made a great analogy between riding a motorcycle and living by faith.

His text was from Proverbs 3:5 "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not to your own understanding." He took the next half hour encouraging us to "lean in" to Jesus when life throws us curves. He showed a video of the fastest motorcycles in the world and showed how the drivers lean almost to to the pavement on curves. You explained how bikers leaning makes the bike easier to control. Pastor Frank explained centrical and how it keeps the bike from tipping when you lean it. He talked about how it goes against our natural instincts to "lean." and compared this to leaning on the Lord when it doesn't make sense. Amen Pastor Frank! Amen!

Pastor then talked about the importance of looking towards your destination instead of focusing on the curve. He said that looking at the curves gives bikers vertigo and causes them to fall. The message encouraged us to keep our eyes on the prize when we are going through the curves life throws at us.

He even told the story of C.S. Lewis becoming a Christian on a motorcycle when he was on his way to the zoo. Lewis wasn't a believer when he started the trip but was a believer when he arrived. I have to admit, I didn't expect a South Texas rural pastor to be quoting Lewis. Forgive me for my own prejudices.

Finally, Pastor Frank exulted in the freedom he felt while riding his Harley. There was something about the joyful way he described the exhilaration of riding a motorcycle and serving Jesus that made me want to ride on this journey of faith with him.

I could hardly breathe as he described his ride to church that morning on his bike with his daughter Belle on the back watching the beautiful Texas sunrise together. Pastor Frank sounds like a great dad. I can't imagine his loss after discovering his beloved Belle was one of those who perished. The newscaster I heard announce it acted surprised a young girl would go to church when her parents were away. I'm not surprised, however, after getting to know Frank better. He made church and living for Jesus sound so exhilarating. He concluded that sermon by inviting any of the kids or adults to come forward and have their picture taken on his "bike". The love and tenderness with which he spoke about the kids, reminded me of one who said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, for such is the kingdom of heaven." I apologize for the old English, but I memoized that one as a boy in the King James Version.

I'm sure Pastor Frank must be suffering survivors guilt, but I believe he was spared for a reason. We need Frank Pomeroy. America needs more pastors than him. Sadly, the church has come to be defined about how we come down on various social issues of the day. I heard no talk of social issues in Bro. Frank's church. I only heard and witnessed the love of Jesus who gives meaning to our lives and gets us through the curves of life.

I'm not even Baptist, but if I lived in this little town, I'd probably be at Sutherland Springs FBC. The surviving members of the church are already using the Christian "F" word. Forgive. The inexplicable love of Jesus is shining through people who have every right to be bitter and disillusioned. I'm blessed by the love of other Christ followers. I was happy to see the Southern Baptist denomination has offered to pay all funeral expenses. I pray that beauty comes out of your ashes, the oil of gladness will someday replace your mourning.

Pastor Frank,

I just want to say I love you dear brother. You don't have to be strong right now. You have already told us what to do. Lean in and keep your eyes on the destination. Your love, your life, and your legacy has touched my soul.